Boughes of Holly
by pathera
Summary: Five Christmases with James Tiberius Kirk. Some are good, some are bad, and some are...fantastic beyond belief. Slash in the last chapter, but I'm not telling who the pairing is!
1. Winter Wonderland

A/N: Welcome to the holiday special of Star Trek, starring Captain James Tiberius Kirk as our hero! I've been working on this since around the middle of November, but I've been saving it until now so that I could post it just in time for the holiday. I think it was originally meant to be a five-and-one, but it turned into just a five, which is fine. The entire thing will be up by tomorrow for Christmas Eve (just as soon as I finish the fifth one!) Any and all mistakes are my own (and I'm wicked tired right now, so forgive any spelling mistakes in this note). This first one is the shortest one, so they will get longer. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own Star Trek. I also don't own Christmas (does anyone?) nor do I own the Christmas carols at the beginning of each chapter.

Boughes of Holly

_Five Christmases with James Tiberius Kirk_

_I. _

_Winter Wonderland_

"_Later on, we'll conspire,_

_as we dream by the fire_

_To face unafraid,_

_the plans that we've made,_

_walking in a winter wonderland."_

Later, when he grows up, the memories will be distant, just flashes of images, snippets of conversation, a wonderfully colorful swirl of lights and sound and laughter. It will also be one of his favorite memories, the only childhood holiday that he willfully recounts when questioned.

James Tiberius Kirk doesn't really have a favorite holiday, but if pushed he will answer with Christmas. The reasons always change—_later he answers "Eggnog" or "presents" with a flourishing wink_—but the real reason is this memory. This Christmas, the one before everything gets screwed up. This is the perfect Christmas, straight out of one of those sappy movies—_the ones that Jim hates when he gets older, because they remind him and that hurts._

He and Sam help their mother decorate a Christmas tree that smells just like fresh pine—although, of course, it isn't _real_—and they hang lights, and they hang candy canes from perfectly shaped tree limbs. Sam grins at him from the corner of his mouth—_and how he misses those grins once they're gone_—and starts a tinsel fight, ending with them both covered in piles of shining silver. Their mother bakes cookies by the dozen, and then they curl up in the living room, drinking hot chocolate. And his mother's voice lifts into Christmas carols—_he can't remember half of them now, but he can always remember those crisp, clear notes—_and when they finally go off to bed they leave a plate out on the coffee table, filled with cookies for Santa.

His mother tucks him and he looks up at her, half-asleep and yawning. "Santa's coming, right mommy?" He says. She smiles at him, smoothes his hair back, and kisses his forehead, pulling the covers tight around him.

"Yes, Jimmy. He's coming."

And when he wakes in the morning, at the crack of dawn—_because when has Jim Kirk __**ever**__ waited for anything in his life?—_the first thing he sees is the glimpse of pure, bright white through his window. He presses his nose against the cold pane, grinning at the expanse of powdery snow outside. Then he wakes his brother, who protests for only a moment before realizing that it's _Christmas_, and they race downstairs. Beneath their decorated tree are perfectly wrapped presents in gold and green and red. They look at each other and grin—_but after…after they barely even look at each other—_then race up the stairs, to throw themselves onto their mother's bed.

She wakes with a jolt and a laugh—_he remembers that her smile was beautiful_—and she joins in, racing them down the stairs. Before breakfast, before anything, they open presents, unable to contain their excitement anyway. His mother hands him a shiny red package, her smile soft, saying "This one's for you, Jimmy."

He can feel her eyes watching him as he rips through the wrapping paper. And then he stares at the object he holds in his hands. A starship, bigger than his tiny palm but still miniature, perfectly formed. He looks up at his mother, and there is a soft kind of sadness to her eyes. But he knows what it means, remembers the moment months earlier when she asked him what he wanted. And, with all the innocence of a child who doesn't really understand, he answered "My daddy."

He looks at the starship in his hand and closes his fingers around it, gripping it tight, smiling.

And he carries it around with him everywhere after that, so that his father can always be with him.

* * *

Reviews are the best gift for holiday season!


	2. Blue Christmas

A/N: I'm practically falling asleep, so this will be a short note. This is the longest chapter (I think, though the fifth one might turn out longer). This one is angsty and I'm mean to Jim and it's sad. Warnings of child abuse. Okay, I'm going to sleep now, so enjoy!

Disclaimer: Still not mine.

_II._

_Blue Christmas_

"_I'll have a blue Christmas, that's certain;_

_And when that blue heartache starts hurting,_

_You'll be doing all right_

_with your Christmas of white,_

_But I'll have a blue, blue Christmas." _

It's been six months since Sam took off—without even saying goodbye—and the wound still hasn't healed. Six months of hell, alone in a house with a man who is more monster than human, a side that he's only really been victim of since his brother has been gone. He's always known that monster side was there, lingering under the surface, but he never really knew how bad it was until Sam was gone. He never really knew how much his brother kept from him, never knew how much his brother protected him.

But Sam is gone, and Frank is there. He shivers just thinking about his step-father. And there is no one to save him. His mother…she's not there. She calls, she checks in, but she's not the same mother anymore. Sam's leaving changed her—she won't even say his name, and her eyes are so betrayed—but she was different even before that. She trusts Frank, and Jim is left with the feeling that even if he does say something—even if he does pull up his sleeve to show that dark bruise in the shape of a finger—she won't listen.

And he will be dead before she can ever do anything about it, even if she does listen. Frank's made that clear. He makes that clear tonight, on Christmas Eve, when he takes a belt to Jim's back. As his step-father screams incoherent, drunken words, Jim just closes his eyes, biting his cheek until he draws blood to keep from screaming.

He won't scream. He _won't_. That's giving in, and he will _not _let the monster have that kind of victory over him.

After the beating stops, after Frank passes out stone-cold, he creeps away, retreating to his room. He curls up in his bed, feeling the welts rise on his back, feeling the bruises start to set in. He grits his teeth, his fingers wrapped around a small plastic starship. And he doesn't utter a sound, of pain. Not one. Not until he manages to swallow around the choking feeling in his throat, until he manages to hum the few bars of a Christmas carol that he remembers. One that his mother used to sing.

He closes his eyes and pretends that it's her voice, as he holds his starship close.

___

He wakes when the heavy footsteps slam onto the floor in his room, but he doesn't wake fast enough. His step-father pulls the covers from his bed, fingers gripping Jim. Only half-awake, he fights. That's his nature, his instinct, and the urge to cower hasn't been beaten into him yet. So he fights, fists flying back against the much larger mass of his step-father. The man throws him against the wall; his head hits with a thud and everything goes black and fuzzy for a moment.

When he opens his eyes again he sees Frank's meaty hand clamp around the starship, and when his eyes grow wide Frank grins.

"Yer gonna do e'rything I say, _boy_." His step-father drawls, dangling the starship in front of him.

He swallows hard, but nods.

___

His mother smiles at him from the screen, and he forces himself to smile back, his lips feeling stretched and strange in the expression that is more of a grimace. He keeps one eye on Frank, who is set back, out of sight, watching him with a dangerous expression. Nevertheless, he examines his mother carefully. She is paler, it seems, and smaller, thinner. Her cheeks are hollowed, and there are dark circles beneath her eyes. And her smile…it's just as fake as his own.

She asks him how he is, and how is day is going, and what kind of presents did he get? And he lies, smoothly, easily, knowing what rests on his lies. She accepts what he says as truth, and continues to ask questions, never offering anything of herself. But he smiles and nods and lies.

Finally she leans forwards, and for a moment she looks like the mother he used to know. Her smile is soft and her eyes are soft, and there is love in her face. "Merry Christmas, Jimmy." She hesitates, pauses, and then says: "You know I love you, right?"

And he answers with an affirmative, and deep down he knows it's true, but while he nods he keeps one eye on Frank, thinking: _If you love me, why did you leave me with a monster? And if you love me, why aren't you here?_

___

He sits on the edge of his seat, nervous tension keeping his muscles tight. He is waiting for the shoe to drop, waiting for the monster to rear up. He watches Frank play idly with the starship; the man knows of his gaze, and looks up every so often to leer. It's a grin full of razors that he shows, and Jim waits for them to start gnawing on him.

The doorbell rings and Frank nods his head; Jim answers it. The delivery man offers him a smile that he doesn't return, checks the address, and leaves him with a box in his hands and a "Merry Christmas!" He closes the door and looks down at the parcel, noting with surprise that it says his name on it. In familiar handwriting. His heart thuds and he heads for the stairs, hoping to get away before Frank realizes….

"C'mere, boy."

He almost doesn't listen—that infamous rebellious streak flaring up, but then that little toy ship in those massive hands pops into his mind. And he turns around.

Frank looks at him, and at the box. "Wha' iz it?"

He licks his lips. "Package." His step-father quirks an eyebrow, extends a hand. "For me," he blurts. And the man stands, towering over him. He yanks the box from his hands and holds it. He looks down at the writing and his face darkens.

"From that good-fer-nothin' brother a yer's."

Jim doesn't say anything. He just looks at the man with a steady, even gaze, his jaw clenched. Frank looks at him for a long moment, and then that razor-grin is back. He leaves the room, returns moments later with a bottle of whiskey and a box of matches. He lights a fire in the fire-place, douses the box in whiskey, and tosses it in to the growing flames.

There is a garble of sound—in which he picks out his brother's voice—and then a miniature explosion. And the package burns.

He doesn't do anything. He stands there, silent, watching the package melt and twist and char. His hands are fists at his side, but he stays perfectly still. And Frank, who watches him, waiting for some sign of dismay, grins. And with a fluid motion, he tosses the starship into the vivid orange flames.

Jim jolts as it flies through the air, but then he catches himself. He watches as the plastic bubbles and melts, as the acrid smell fills the room. His short nails dig into his palms; his teeth bite into his cheek and blood fills his mouth. He stands, still, and finally raises his eyes to meet his step-father's gaze.

There is vicious triumph in the man's dark eyes, and he _won't _stand for it anymore. All traces of the little boy he was are gone, and he is now something much darker. Much angrier. He raises an eyebrow, and then—in a move that will become classic Jim Kirk—he spits. It's more blood than saliva, and it arcs through the air, landing on his step-father's foot. Frank stares at the drop, his expression twisted, and then he raises his fist, charging through the space between them.

"Go to hell." Jim says. And now he fights back. Now he will _always _fight back.

* * *

Reviews for the needy? It's the giving season, remember?


	3. Silent Night

A/N: So..._tired_...so this is going to be short. Thank you to all of my lovely reviewers (I promise that I will respond to your reviews once I have enough sleep to do so)! This chapter is probably my least favorite, but eh, whatevs. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Not mine.

_III._

_Silent Night_

"_Silent night, holy night,_

_All is calm, all is bright."_

He absent-mindedly pushes the bottle back and forth between his hands, sliding it across the polished surface of the bar. It's half-empty—normally he's optimistic, but right now nothing in the world is half-full—and it stays that way, just making its way from hand to hand. He stares vacantly at the rows of bottles behind the counter, not really seeing anything until the bartender enters his view and pauses in front of him.

The bartender is an older man, his face open and friendly and honest; he had taken Jim's fake I.D. without a second glance, which he is grateful for. Now he studies Jim carefully for a long moment, before leaning against the bar.

"Kid," he says, "go home."

Jim jerks a little, surprised by the sudden address, and stares at the man. He raises an eyebrow, swallowing. "What?" He asks.

The bartender's lips crease into a kind of grin. "You're not a day over seventeen, son."

He straightens, mouth opening to construct some kind of defense, but the man raises a hand.

"I'm not gonna bust you, kid. Wouldn't have given you that beer if I was."

Jim tilts his head. "Then why'd you serve me?"

"You looked like you were in desperate need of a drink. And someone that desperate, I ain't gonna say no, just 'cause they're a couple years too young. I figured if you're man enough to march in here like nothin's wrong, you're man enough for a beer."

He doesn't say anything in response, just runs his fingers over the brown bottle. He doesn't like the idea of seeming so desperate for a drink, even if it was the truth. It's not really the alcohol that he craves—he just wants the forgetting that comes with it.

"But it's time to go home, son. It's Christmas Eve. And nothin' can be so bad that you should spend Christmas Eve sittin' at a bar."

He opens his mouth and then closes it again. He wants to say that things _are _that bad, that over his dead body is he going anywhere near the place he loosely terms home, that he has no where else to go. But he doesn't say anything. He doesn't want to see pity in the bartender's eyes, no more than that which is already there. He rubs a hand over his bruised knuckles—they're perpetually bruised from the fights, half of which take place in bars not unlike this one, the other half which happen in that place that can barely be called home.

He raises the bottle to his mouth and takes a long sip. Licking his lips he pauses. Then: "What if it is that bad?" He doesn't meet the bartender's eyes, just looks long and hard at the beer bottle in his hands.

There is a short silence, but the reply comes. "It's not." Startled, flushing with anger, he looks up, and the anger fades away, pushed back by the sheer sense of honesty in the man's face. "It sure might seem that way, kid, but sometimes you just need to look at what you've really got. Even the little things matter when it seems like life's piling up against you. There's always something, some tiny little thing that's worth livin' for. Worth fightin' for." The bartender smiles. "You've just gotta find it."

He doesn't go home. He's steadfast in his avoidance of that run-down house, where the monster waits for his return. It's Christmas, goddamit, and he's not going to spend another holiday fighting. Not now, not ever again. He'll pay for his absence later, in blood and bruises and black eyes, but not now.

Instead he rides his motorcycle in the opposite direction of the house. He's got nowhere to go, not really. No close friends—because Jim Kirk makes friends at an incredible rate, but none of them stick around. None of them get close. He won't let them. Friends are a commodity; friends would look at him with worry and pity, and he wants none of that. He's got himself to worry about, and he doesn't need other people doing the same thing. _(And there's the shame, but he won't admit that to himself. Won't admit that he thinks they'll look at him and see weakness. Won't admit that he's afraid they'll see only that he can't even save himself.)_

He rides until he's tired, and then he pulls over. He lays in the middle of a vast field—which are never hard to find in god-forsaken Iowa, and he's just lucky that it's a freakishly warm, snowless winter; good thing global warming got _something _right—and puts his hands behind his head and stares up at the inky black night and the pricklings of starlight. For once, everything is peaceful.

He spends the night there, under the stars, sleeping until the sun hits his face. Then he climbs back onto his motorcycle and rides back, and heads for a bar as soon as the sun rises high enough, because damn if he doesn't need a drink.

* * *

Reviews are like chocolate. They make me all happy and melty inside!


	4. God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen

A/N: Still so freakin' tired, gah! I love Bones, so it's only right that he gets his own little part of this fic. The fifth and final portion of this will be up tomorrow, and hopefully I'll be more coherent (but don't bet on it). Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Still not mine, and I still don't own the Christmas carols either.

_IV._

_God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen_

"_All you within this place,_

_And with true love and brotherhood_

_Each other now embrace;_

_this holy tide of Christmas_

_Doth bring redeeming grace."_

This time when he makes his way into the bar he's not alone. Bones is right on his tail, not even protesting their foray into the world of alcohol. Not tonight, when he's dealing with the fact that his ex-wife is a cold-blooded bitch and that he won't be able to see the look on his daughter's face when she opens her presents in the morning.

The bar is nearly empty, which is a good thing. Most times Jim desires to lose himself in chaos, in the noise and the crowd and the music, but when it comes to this Christmas the only thing he wants is the burn of alcohol and the quiet of a more peaceful world. The bartender—who knows them quite well—looks at them, sees something in their expressions, and reaches for a bottle. He plunks two bourbons in front of them as they seat themselves at the bar and gives them a half-grin. "On the house, boys."

He nods in thanks, and Bones just grunts, taking a long swig of the drink.

There's quite a collection of empty glasses littered around them before they finally break the silence of their self-absorbed misery. It's McCoy who cuts through all the messy awkward moments, slamming the glass against the surface of the bar with a scowl of his face. He could terrify Klingons with _that _expression.

"Goddamn Jocelyn." His voice is gravely, a little choked, and bitter.

And he knows perfectly well who Jocelyn is. He's heard about her time and time again. There are moments, especially when he sees his best friend in _this_ kind of state, where he wants to put down his drink, hunt down the woman, and shake her around until she realizes what a _bitch _she is for doing this. What kind of woman turns her back on a devoted father and denies him the right to see his only child? He just doesn't understand it, not one damn bit.

"I just want to _see _her. For just a _moment_," the man whispers.

It _kills _Bones to not see Joanna. He loves that little girl more than he loves any other thing in the world. He loves her more than he loves himself. He loves her more than the air he breathes. He loves her more than he loves medicine and being a doctor, and _that's _saying something. He loves her with every breath in his body.

Jim knows this perfectly well. And, in some tiny part of himself, he admits the facts.

He's _jealous_. He's jealous of a seven year old girl because her father loves her so damn much. And not because there's no room in McCoy's scarred heart for anyone other than that little girl. He's jealous because he knows that no one in the world has _ever _loved him that much.

He puts a hand on his friend's shoulder and lifts his glass. "One day, Bones, one day." He lifts the bourbon to his lips and gulps it down. It burns away some of the melancholy. "Merry Christmas," he says. He can _hear _the bitterness in his own voice, and he hates it.

"Merry Christmas, kid," McCoy says with a sigh.

And they sink back into their private pits of despair, drinking until the world is fuzzy around the edges and the pain isn't quite so sharp.

But at least they aren't alone.

* * *

All I want for Christmas are lovely reviews beneath my tree!


	5. A Merry Little Christmas

A/N: I am _so _terribly sorry that this is so late! It was meant to be out on Christmas Day at the latest and well...it's January ninth, so clearly **that **didn't happen. But between the holidays and personal stuff that I've got going on and a touch of writer's block when it came to the end of this thing...well, it's finally here. I hope everyone had a lovely Christmas and a lovely New Years. It's 2010, can you believe it? It's a new decade! Here at last is the final chapter of Boughes of Holly, and I do hope you enjoy it! I will definitely be getting around to replying to reviews very soon, as I am woefully behind in that department. Now, I believe I mentioned before that this chapter would include slash, and indeed it does. If you have issues with two men (or half-vulcans, =)) kissing you should turn away right now. It's nothing graphic at all; in fact it's quite fluffy. And i have to admit that I have so many issues with writing Spock--which is one of the reasons I had so much trouble with the end--but I did my best. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I own the movie, but that's about it. Oh, but I _wish_...

_V._

_A Merry Little Christmas_

"_Through the years we all will be together_

_If the Fates allow_

_Hang a shining star upon the highest bough._

_And have yourself a merry little Christmas now."_

It's Chekov's idea. Given a little more time there's a good chance that Uhura would have stumbled upon the same bright idea, but under the circumstances she jumps over the idea with youthful exuberance. She and Chekov have their heads together, their eyes bright, a couple of children in a candy store.

And, of course, no one else has a chance of escaping them. Sulu makes a minimal resistance, but all it takes is one pouting puppy-dog expression from Chekov and he's bending over backwards. Uhura manages to finangle Spock into helping—despite his protests against the _"illogical frivolity" _he does eventually concede to Uhura's logic. After all, she knows how Spock's mind works, even if their relationship is no longer of an intimate, romantic nature. Scotty gets shanghaied into the whole business by one flirtatious bat of Uhura's eyes—damn those feminine wiles of hers, he thinks to himself later, when he's carrying heavy chairs all over creation. But the promise in her eyes is worth it. He hopes.

The next stumbling block is one Leonard "Bones" McCoy. The good doctor doesn't even _like _holidays, because they remind him too much of his daughter. Surprisingly though, he isn't too difficult to convince. Not when Chekov says the words _"Et iz for ze Keptin". _Then Bones just sort of folds. He agrees to all of their—Uhura's mostly, girl can be _bossy_—plans with minimal grumbling. So long as he doesn't have to dress up he agrees to be part of the plan.

And after that the only hard part is keeping their captain in the dark. Which is harder than it sounds, because Jim Kirk may be a lot of things but stupid is not one of them. He's incredibly observant, and he _knows _what happens on his ship. He knows _everything_.

Thus keeping an undertaking of such magnitude under wraps takes a lot of finesse and a lot of luck.

He's suspicious, of course. He _knows _that _something _is going on; he's just not sure what it is. But they manage to pull it off. And he's so busy trying to figure out exactly what they're up to that he completely forgets the date.

Until he walks into the rec room on December 25th and is greeted by a riot of red and green and gold and silver. And a massive shout of "Merry Christmas" from his broadly grinning crew. Uhura has a cat-ate-the-canary look on her face, and Chekov just giggles and giggles at the look on Jim's face. Even Bones, hand firmly encircling a glass of some kind of alcohol, is relaxed enough to smile and pat him on the shoulder.

He walks through the room in a near daze. There are people _everywhere_, but for once it doesn't bother him. These are people that he _knows_. Everyone on the ship seems to be crowded into the spacious room; it's a living throng of laughter and movement and the low hum of pleasant chatter. An impromptu band strikes up in the corner and soon people are clearing space for a dance floor. Uhura takes Scotty's hand and with a grin tugs him out onto the floor, twirling herself into his arms. Chekov and Sulu are in a corner, the Russian whiz kid giggling up a storm and Sulu leaning in towards him. People nod at him left and right as he makes his way through the crowd.

After he's been greeted by just about every person in the room, had a drink pressed into his hand, and interrogated Bones as to _who _exactly was behind all of this—Chekov is a bit of surprise, but he should have _known _that Uhura had something to do with it—he finds his way to a corner in the back and leans against the wall, sipping his drink. There's a tiny grin on his lips as he lets his gaze sweep over the crowd. Everyone seems so…_happy_. Everyone is happy to be there and happy to see each other and full of holiday cheer.

And then a chorus of voices rise up in song, and he can feel himself falling back through the years. These Christmas carols aren't exactly like those his mother used to sing. For one there are quite a few intoxicated belting out the merry holiday tunes. But above it all he hears Uhura's voice rise, sweet and clear, and he closes his eyes, smiling.

"Jim?"

He opens his eyes to find Spock standing in front of him. He starts to smile at his First Officer and then he blinks. He closes his eyes and opens them again, and then rubs his eyes just to make sure he's not hallucinating. Spock shifts awkwardly in front of him—_clearly _uncomfortable, and the fact that he's showing it is astounding. The source of his discomfort is quite obvious.

Because Spock is standing there, his hands behind his back, his posture straight and tense, dressed not in his usual uniform, nor in _any _form of Starfleet regulation uniform. He is, in fact, wearing a bright red sweater. And from the look on his face he is _not _wearing it willingly. Seeing his stare Spock looks down at himself and—amazingly—blushes a little, his cheeks taking the slightest green tinge.

It's _adorable_.

…In a completely manly, strictly friends kind of way. Of course.

"Ah," Spock says, clearing his throat. "Nyota logically persuaded me to wear the attire that she presented me with."

He stifles a snigger, smiling. "She threatened you," he says, folding his arms. The Vulcan inclines his head a little.

"There was a minor threat to my continued health should I not adhere to her demands." Now Spock's shoulders relax a little, but he still seems…_nervous_, almost. He has perfected the art of reading his first officer's body language, and there is a distinct amount of nervousness in the slight shifting of his weight from side to side, in the fiddling of his hands behind his back. And _actually_…it almost looks like he's _hiding _something behind his back.

He cranes his neck a little and Spock automatically moves to block his view. He grins a little. He _is _hiding something. He raises his eyebrows at the Vulcan. Spock shifts again and then raises his chin.

"I—Christmas is not a holiday we celebrate on Vulcan," he begins. "The religious overtones are not applicable and the commercialized aspect is seen as frivolous. However," he says slowly, "my mother _was _human." His voice goes cool over those words, and Jim wants to reach out and touch his shoulder, an automatic comforting gesture. He holds himself firm, but there's softness in his eyes and he knows it. It's the only form of comfort he can give the man. "She taught me the traditions of the holiday. And…I was _encouraged _by Nyota…." He stops. In a lesser person Jim would say that he was _flustered_, but of course this is _Spock_, so that's impossible. Right?

Spock lifts his chin, determination in his eyes, and then brings his hands to the front. Clutched in one hand is a box, wrapped in shiny blue wrapping paper, with a silver bow on top of it. He holds it out. "For you, Jim," he prompts after a moment, when he just stares at it. Trembling only slightly he takes the box, careful not to brush the Vulcan's hands accidentally. He holds the box in his hands, still staring at it, until another prompt from Spock starts him into motion. "I believe you are supposed to open it, Jim."

That's the third time he's used _Jim _instead of _Captain_. And despite his months of harping Spock still tends to use his title rather than his name, so this is a miracle in itself. He grins and slides his thumb under the taped end of the package. He can tell that Spock is the one who did the wrapping, because it's perfect, neat and tidy without wrinkles, every bit of tape perfectly placed. Normally he rips right through the wrapping paper, but he can't bring himself to do that now. So he unwraps the box slowly, making sure not to tear, marveling at the fact that he's unwrapping a Christmas gift from _Spock_. Beneath the paper is a square black box. He casts one look at his first officer and then opens the box.

"Doctor McCoy informed me that you collected Terran antiquities." Spock says, as he lifts the silver watch from the confines of the box. "This piece is from the Terran twenty-first century."

"It's beautiful, Spock," he says, running his fingers over the silver links and around the circular face. Then he pauses. "Where—how did you get this? We haven't been on Earth in months."

Spock inclines his head. "It has been in my possession since our last sojourn on Earth." He seems to hesitate, then continues. "During our leave on Earth I located my mother's relatives. Her sibling gave me a collection of her belongings and family heirlooms, of which this is one. It has been passed through the generations of her family."

He looks at the watch in his hand. "Spock…I can't—."

Spock holds up a hand, stopping him. "Please, Jim, I want you to have this."

He stares at the man, then smiles—softer now, a real smile as opposed to one of his grins—and latches the watch around his wrist. "Thank you. I'll cherish it."

He opens his mouth to say something more, to try and diffuse this strange tension—because Spock is _still _high-strung and tense—but he catches sight of Bones heading their way with a wicked grin on his face and immediately narrows his eyes in suspicion. Spock follows his gaze as their resident doctor makes his way over.

"He's up to something…." He looks around and sees several other key members of the crew—Uhura in particular, but Sulu and Chekov and Scotty as well—looking slyly at him with various degrees of grins. He's starting to feel his stomach tie in knots, because he recognizes the look on his best friend's face, and it means that his life is about to get _very _embarrassing_. _

He folds his arm as McCoy finally gets within speaking distance. "Now, now, what are you and our first officer doing back here in this corner all alone, oh fearless leader?"

Was that…was that an _innuendo_? A subtle one, sure, but he picks up on that little suggestive undercurrent to the doctor's voice. He glares. "Talking, Bones. Are you familiar with that form of communication?"

His friend doesn't rise to the bait. Instead he just smirks, slow and definitely amused and _scheming. _That is _never _a good sign.

"Talking? Is that what they're calling it these days?"

Okay, now he's just damn confused. As is Spock, apparently, judging by the height that his eyebrow has risen to. The particular expression he's wearing right now translates approximately to _what hell are you silly humans talking about_? And Bones—_damn him_—looks oh-so amused, standing there with his conniving smirk. Finally he snorts and takes pity on them. "Look up, Jim."

He cranes his neck backwards.

Oh. Well shit.

"_Phoradendron_ _flavescens_." Spock says with mild interest, also looking up. "Commonly known as—."

"Mistletoe," McCoy cuts in, still with that smirk. "You're standing under the mistletoe with Spock, Jim. Sure you're just _talking_?"

He glares, and then a thought strikes him. For a moment his eyes widen and then narrow again, set on his friend. "You _planned _this," he hisses. Bones shrugs, but doesn't make a denial.

"You like corners," he says with a wider grin.

He folds his arms, wishing that he could melt the doctor into a puddle with the heat of his glare. "I am marooning you the first chance I get."

"I assume," Spock says, making both of them jump, "from your reactions, that there is connotation to this plant's presences that I am unaware of."

Bones laughs wickedly while he flushes, feeling the hot rush of blood to his face. "You could say that, Spock." Bones says with a snort.

"There—there is a tradition on Earth concerning mistletoe." He says, trying to compose himself. Looking out he sees that Uhura is watching the scene with a particular self-satisfied grin. He decides that Bones is going to have a little company when he gets marooned, namely one Lieutenant Nyota Uhura. Spock turns to him, with that eyebrow raised, prompting. "When two people are standing under mistletoe tradition calls for them to…."

Spock folds his arms, looking at him.

"What are you scared of, _Captain_?" Bones says, still grinning. Oh he is _definitely _getting marooned. Preferably on somewhere like Delta Vega where he'll be chased by giant monsters who want to eat him. "It's just a simple _kiss_."

He glares at his _supposed _best friend. "I will kill you and hide the body where no one will ever find it. See if I don't."

McCoy looks at him, grins, looks at Spock, and then turns away. "Good luck," he says, and walks away cackling. He gulps and looks at Spock, whose expression is—as usual but perhaps even more now—unreadable.

"It's just a stupid tradition Spock, don't worry about it. I mean, forcing people to _kiss _because they happen to be standing under a plant? What kind of bull is that? Besides, it's really just a tradition for horny teenagers and people who can't get kissed any other way. People probably stand under the mistletoe for hours, waiting for someone to come along because they're that desperate, and we _clearly _aren't anything like that—."

He goes from rambling to completely silent in less than a second as Spock—using those non-human super reflexes of his—grabs the front of his shirt, pulls him off balance, and presses their lips together.

He stares, wide-eyed, at the Vulcan that is kissing him, too stunned to do anything other than think _Spock is kissing me. __**Spock **__is __**kissing **__me. __**Spock**__ is kissing __**me. **_And then, in true Jim Kirk fashion, he mentally shrugs and kisses him back. When he finds Spock's hand and presses his fingers against the Vulcan's fingers and hears a moan in return he smiles into the kiss.

Now _this _is a Christmas present of the very best kind.

…But he's still going to maroon Bones. And Uhura. It's only fair.

* * *

For the low price of one review you will be provided with a sprig of mistletoe and your very own Star Trek cast member of your choice. Free shipping is provided with this purchase.


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